Learning to Soar Read Free Page B

shirt with a subtle diamond pattern, a striped wine-and-navy tie, and casual flat-front chinos that skimmed over his slim waist and hips. His glossy nut-brown loafers matched his belt—they looked both understated and expensive. Hardly a pimp outfit, she admitted to herself. Also, nice shoes, dude.
    Damien placed his hand on the doorknob and opened it. Chloe caught a whiff of Obsession for Men coming from him. Yum, she thought reflexively. Pulsing dance music wafted into the room. “There you go”—Damien gestured out into the hallway—“you can leave if you’d like. But since you came all this way, maybe you’d like to hear what I can do for you.”
    Chloe studied his face. He looked sincere. His denim-blue eyes were frank and warm, and his face was classically handsome without being pretty-boy soft. He looked, she decided, an awful lot like Russell Crowe mixed with a touch of Hugh Jackman—minus the metal claws. In short, he was an awfully attractive man.
    She looked out into the deserted hallway. The red ‘Exit’ sign still beckoned, but nowhere near as compellingly as it had before. The throbbing music and laughter still echoed from the dance floor and bar, reassuring her that humanity was only a short hallway away.
    Plus, as wild as Monica was, she had been Chloe’s closest friend for years, through college and grad school and all sorts of emotional mayhem. In her heart, Chloe knew that Monica wanted the best for her. If Monica trusted Damien to help her, and Monica’s therapist—okay, fine, her masseuse—had recommended this guy’s services, surely he had something to offer.
    Chloe pulled the door shut and held her hand out to Damien for a handshake. “I’m sorry for the rude entrance. I guess I’m a little nervous. I’m Chloe Davis, Monica’s friend.” His hand felt warm and strong around hers. Little crinkles appeared in the corners of his eyes when he smiled. Chloe wondered what it would feel like to trace her fingertip down the side of his temple, over his chiselled cheekbone, to that firmly set jawline.
    “I’m Damien Walters,” he said. “I’m also a friend of Monica’s, so at least we have that much in common. Please have a seat.” He gestured to a sleek, black leather sofa and chairs set. Monica eased onto the Eames sofa carefully and crossed her legs. It was incredibly difficult to be ladylike in the glorified stretch belt that Monica had passed off as a skirt, but Chloe was determined to give it her best shot.
    “Would you like a drink?” Damien asked. “I have pinot grigio, chardonnay, and cabernet sauvignon. I also have some nice scotch and tequila, as well as soft drinks and bottled water.” He waited for her response in front of a sculptural glass and chrome bar.
    “Um, I suppose I’ll have some water,” Chloe answered. “Sparkling, if you have it.”
    Damien nodded and opened the refrigerator door.
    “On second thought,” Chloe stopped him. “I’ll have some white wine. My stomach’s a little fluttery, and maybe the wine will help.”
    “No need to explain,” Damien said as he withdrew a bottle from an under-counter wine chiller. “This is a bar, after all, and I think alcohol certainly has its place. All in moderation, of course,” he added. Damien poured two servings of wine into stemless glasses and handed one to Chloe. He sat in the chair closest to her and took a sip.
    “Mmm, this is an Italian pinot grigio from 2005. Excellent.” Damien smiled and placed his glass on the gleaming boomerang coffee table.
    “So”—he clasped his hands together—“let me describe what I do. I am a freelance sex therapist. I am not certified by any school or government branch. I have not undergone any professional training. I am not licensed in any way. I base my individualised courses of treatment on my own life experiences, nothing more. You are never required to partake of any action during your treatment session, and I promise that I will not touch you during your